


Holds, Held, Will Hold

by xannish



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:03:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xannish/pseuds/xannish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bombs exploded outside the room and memories exploded inside his head. Elizabeth slept. She, at least, was real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holds, Held, Will Hold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moonsheen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonsheen/gifts).



Booker DeWitt sat on the wooden stairs leading up to the locked door that led to the pillaged Finkton bar with a shotgun in his lap. Elizabeth was two steps below him, her head resting on his knee. Outside, the night was on fire.

It reminded him of the vision he’d had when he first came to Columbia, of the firebombing of some other New York.  Maybe it was this world’s New York. He wondered whose Zeppelins would be doing the bombing.

“Booker?” Elizabeth asked, and he almost jumped. He’d thought she was asleep. They’d been running for so long that they were both exhausted. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since either of them had last had a chance to rest for more than a few minutes. It got confusing, with all this walking through tears, with—

_He remembered shaking hands with Daisy Fitzroy, pats on the back from Slate, storming the Hall of Heroes, fire and gunfire and choking smoke, heat and cold, blackness reaching up to swallow his sight, cutting off breath, cutting off thought—when had that happened? How did he get here? Wasn’t he—_

“Booker?” Elizabeth repeated.

Booker sniffed, and tasted blood.

“Yeah.” He swallowed bile, focused on the things that were real and present: the comforting weight of the gun, the warmth of her small body near to his. “Yeah. What do you need?”

“What if I can’t get us back to the world we came from?”

“I don’t know. You’re the expert there.”

“I just… can’t always find the same place when I’m looking for it. What if that tear isn’t there when we get back?”

“Then we’ll find another one. Besides, are you so anxious to get back to where we were? Didn’t seem like you were too happy being locked up.”

“Aren’t you? What if your employer isn’t here?”

“Well, maybe my debt’s not here, either. Besides, Booker DeWitt is dead. I’ll just take a new name, make a new life for myself. Run away to South America with stolen Columbian machines.”

He was trying not to think about the reality of it too hard. Especially about his employer. When he thought too hard, it went all strange, like the memories of dying as the Vox’s martyr. Details slipped out of his grasp when he tried to grab them too hard. He had to hold them carefully, like sea-urchins covered in needled spines, had to look at them from a distance. Don’t dig too deep. He was used to keeping memories like that. His mind held great dark caverns full of places he didn’t want to walk, but at night the ghosts came out and dragged him down into them anyway.

Besides, after all he’d been through to get the girl her freedom, he didn’t much feel like handing her over to anyone else.

“Will you take me with you?”

“Hm?”

“When you run away to South America. It’s not like I’m going to go live with _Comstock._ Besides, I think I’ve proven that I can make myself useful.”

Despite her cockiness, she sounded very young, and very lost. For a moment a child instead of the determined and very knowledgeable young woman she tried so hard to be.

His hand slipped from the stock of the shotgun down to lay on her head. Her hair was soft and warm, like dusty brown satin. “I don’t think I know how to live that kind of life.”

“You wouldn’t have to take care of me,” Elizabeth insisted, reading the meaning behind his words. She looked up at him, and his hand slid to brush her cheek. “I can take care of myself.” She frowned up at him earnestly.

“Yeah. I bet you can. But you should have someone who knows how to treat a young lady.”

“Like a giant monster bird? Booker, I haven’t had _anyone._ You’re better than nothing. You’re a _lot_ better than nothing.” She laid her fingers over his hand. Everything about her was so small and delicate.

_He remembered a tiny hand, grasping his finger tighter than he thought should be possible. Blue eyes laughing, reaching for him. A small form curled up against him, falling asleep at his side when she wouldn’t sleep in her crib. Anna…_

The thought slid away, ungrasped, and he remained unpricked by its poison needles. He would not remember that he had the thought at all.

“Thanks.”

She turned away to stifle a yawn. “The door’s locked, and anyway, no one’s coming down here right now. They’re too busy outside. Can’t you put the gun down for a minute?”

“I like the gun where it is, thanks. Why?”

“Because it makes me think you’re going to shoot one of us by accident.”

“I don’t shoot anyone by accident,” Booker replied, but he swung the gun to his side, leaning it against the wall. Elizabeth scooted up a step, curling closer to him. He awkwardly draped his arm around her shoulders.

She closed her eyes. Outside, there was an explosion, and a muffled yell which he couldn’t identify as Vox or Founder. He supposed it didn’t really matter.

“You never really answered,” Elizabeth murmured. “About whether I could come with you. To...” she yawned, “South ‘merica. New York.” Yawn. “Paris.”

Booker curled his arm around her, as if he could stand between her and the world, maybe between her and her fate, whatever that fate was supposed to be. Her eyes stayed closed. It was a long minute before he answered.

 “Anywhere,” he whispered. “I’ll take you anywhere.”

He wondered if there could be a future for them, if they could get out of this place, make a life for themselves on some other shore. Her talents _would_ be pretty damned useful, and maybe… Maybe he’d be able to find a use for himself, too, other than beating folks up. Maybe he’d find a way to fill in a few more holes in his soul and let go of some of the hurt.

Ha. And pigs would fly.

Bombs exploded outside the room and memories exploded inside his head. Elizabeth slept. She, at least, was real.

She he could hold.


End file.
